


The A to Z of Kinky Smut Tropes!

by AcidArrow



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Bruce Banner, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Crossdressing, Darcy is the fandom bicycle and I love it, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Warning: Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidArrow/pseuds/AcidArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of alphabetized kinky smut trope prompts from Tumblr. If you want to request something, check out my Tumblr at <a href="http://acidarrowguy.tumblr.com/post/141530344066/prompt-me-the-a-to-z-of-kinky-smut-tropes">~acidarrowguy</a>! If you want to use the prompts, feel free to do so with credit!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Bucky/Kate) H is for Hate-Sex

**H: Hate-Fucking** _**(WinterHawk♀/WinterBishop for ~awkwardnormalcy on Tumblr)  
** _

While one Hawkeye was bad, two Hawkeyes was proving to be far,  _far_ worse.   
  
Bucky was usually so calm and rational – especially next to Steve, who was suffering from epic and quite often violent knee-jerk reactions to _anything_ that rubbed him even _slightly_ the wrong way. And, right now, it seemed that _everything_ was rubbing him the wrong way, whether it was Thor’s unbelievably loud laugh, or Tony uttering a snarky comment as they passed in the corridor, or Wanda’s oversensitivity to _everything_  she had to deal with.   
  
But not Bucky. Thor’s laughter was easy to block out no matter how hearty, Tony’s snark could always be countered with a small threat he would never _really_ know whether or not was fake or real… and Wanda, well. She had a reason to be sensitive. It was one of those strange occasions where Bucky actually found himself _empathizing_ with someone, which, while it was terrifying in and of itself, definitely didn’t annoy him, or shatter his iron composure in even the slightest. In fact, many within the tower believed there was nothing that _could_ put a dent in his composure, which led many of them to trying.  
  
And all attempts had failed… except one. Except… for that prissy, stuck-up, snarky little… _bitch_ , and Bucky was a respectful guy who didn’t use that word lightly. Everything about Kate Bishop just _grated_ on his nerves, and it seemed that the more he reacted to her, the more the annoying baby Hawk pecked away at his boundaries. The little doll was _pushing her luck_ , and it was only a matter of time before the highly volatile supersoldier _snapped_.  
  
Bucky still didn’t remember how it happened. All he knew was that one moment, he was turning to respond to one of her catty little remarks… and the next, he was laying supine on the couch beneath her, red-faced and angry that an _unmodified human_ of _her_ skill level was able to get one up on him that easily.  
  
Sadly for Kate… she was an unmodified human of much smaller stature than the tiger whose tail she had just taken ahold of and _yanked_ … and it took barely any of Bucky’s strength to throw her from his abdomen, catch her by the blouse before she hit the ground, and toss her casually against the wall before her shirt completely ripped from her frame under the weight and momentum, and she was practically topless crushed between him and the painted den wall.   
  
Her breasts, cupped together in a lacy lilac bra, rose and fell as she panted breathlessly against him, both of her wrists helplessly captured in the vises that were his fingers. She was probably thinking about how she had maybe finally bitten off more than she can chew, and pushed his boundaries too far… but when his mouth found hers, vicious and all teeth, she responded in kind, meeting his challenge by sinking her own into his lower lip and drawing a growl of both pleasure and pain from the bulky man.  
  
And that was how it started. _That_ was how it _all_ started: the belt she thought it would be funny to whip him with that later found itself binding her hands behind her back as he pumped himself in and out of her, pinned by her hair against the couch; the taser she borrowed from Darcy that he found in her bag, and reprogrammed with Clint’s help to lower the wattage so that he could torment her nipples with it as she lay helpless and squirming and moaning beneath his full weight; the rough, naked, slippery shower sex they would take turns to “force” their way into after the other was done in the gym.   
  
It was the only time he could tolerate her, when she was panting, and begging, and moaning his name beneath him. The only time he could tolerate her… was when she was his.


	2. (Steve/Wanda) I is for Interrogation

**I: Interrogation _(ScarletShield for ~marvelfanuniverse on Tumblr)_**

“I just wanted you to know… this isn’t my first time, doll. And they all break, all of them, eventually… and I’m willing to bet my shiny uniform that _you_  aren’t going to be any different.”

Wanda was holding her breath, her eyes full of desperation and want and need, staring straight ahead at the ceiling as her head was held back by one of the Captain’s strong hands tangled in her long, thick hair. The constant buzzing of the… the _weapon_ against her flesh was driving her insane, and she knew that if she clued him in on the fact that she was getting too close…  
  
“Now. Are you going to tell me what I need to know, or not?”  
  
The tiniest of whimpers slipped through Wanda’s lips, which were trembling. As were her bare porcelain thighs, spread across the seat of the iron chair she was bound to, and her hands, restrained behind her and to the chair with rope. Another rope encircled her bare breasts in a pretty figure-eight shape, tied in such a way that it braced her stiffly against the chair, her nipples jutting out proudly in the cool air of the holding cell. 

Try as she might, she couldn’t move, and the dampener Stark had put on the room all but drained her of her powers… she wasn’t even allowed the tiniest  _peek_ inside his head at that point, the room eerily and unfamiliarly silent around her as she was left alone at the mercy of a man who, in theory, should actually be quite merciful.

Legend liked to lie, though, Wanda had discovered.

“That doesn’t sound like an answer, doll…” Steve Rogers shifted his right hand, which was holding the blunt end of the wand against her naked pussy, wedged firmly between her lips and against her clitoris; the motion caused more pressure, and Wanda’s strained silence ended with a cry of despair.

“You’re so close to breaking…” He was whispering against her now, his lips mere inches from her ear, tongue flicking out to tease the flesh of the pierced lobe between sentences. “So close to being mine… to telling me everything I need to know, now… all you need to do… is open those pretty lips of yours… and tell me.”

“Nnnnnnnnnn!” Wanda grit her teeth tightly to avoid the pre-arranged sliver of information that had been discussed beforehand escaping past them. She craned her neck in order to twist her head to face him, eyes glowing just faintly crimson as they narrowed into his.

“Wanda Maximoff–” was all she said bluntly, each word sounding as if she were having to _force_ it out. “Scarlet Witch. SHIELD agent… number… two-seven-four–”  
  
Steve’s chuckle was lost on the extra decibels the loud buzzing gained as he switched the wand up to the next level, and the little witch’s back arched as much as it could against the unforgiving chair as she bent and squirmed and writhed in the Captain’s arms.

“That was unfortunate… you gonna try that again, sweetie?”

“Wa… Wanda… M… Mmmmm…” She could barely make sounds anymore. He had kept her like this, bound and tied to the chair in the dark on the edge of orgasm, for what had to be close to three hours now, and even still, she refused to break. She… refused… to…

_But it would be so easy to just tell him, Wanda… to just… end this…_

No. She refused to give in. Her breath came in sharp, ragged, shallow gasps as she drew closer and closer to blessed release, but her captor had other plans. She was about ready to scream as she neared the peak and climax of everything she had wanted now for hours… and then suddenly, the vibration was gone, and he was gone, and she was left unfulfilled and breathless, writhing in agony and anguish on the chair.

“You… absolute… son uv’ a _bitch_ , Steve Rogers…” was what she said, but the way her accent was teased and tossed about in the throes of need of want, well, it was as good as ‘I love you’ to her dominant. The two of them were only lucky they had these… ahem, _facilities_ to use for their games.  

Neighbours weren’t often too excited about that much noise, especially at four in the morning on a weekday. But that was what Wanda got when she didn’t behave… and it was both of their _favourite_ kinds of punishment.


	3. (Bucky/Jane) J is for Jacking Off

**J: Jacking Off _(WinterScience for ~iamartemisday on Tumblr)  
_** _(I have never tried writing Jane, EVER, so I tried to do a good job for you, doll!)_

“For science?” she asked tentatively. She still couldn’t believe she was doing this, but there was something about the shaggy-haired brunet that brought out the wild side in her – the flirtacious, bodacious, _daring_ side of her that very rarely ever surfaced, except for subconsciously when she was running on zero sleep, litres of caffeine, and was barely inches from missing a deadline that would destroy months and months of research and work.   
  
And even then, that was a very _different_ type of daring to the side of her that Bucky brought out. _That_ side was all coy smiles, winks, and smirks, as the shirtless super-soldier stood beside the examination table he had just lifted her on top of and grinned down at her in that charming, lopsided way that he did. He was _so, so broken_ … and yet, when they were alone, he was such a different person.   
  
He wasn’t afraid to smile.   
  
“For science,” he replied firmly, with a nod of his head that caused his messy bangs to fall in his face, hiding most of his expression beneath the harsh white lights. The lab was empty, at least it was other than Stark several floors up… which just meant they would have to be _quiet_.  
  
Jane laughed awkwardly. “You sure you’re all good with this? Not too weird for you?”  
  
The grin on his face tugged itself up a little at the highest corner and he shook his head. “No, trust me, it… it makes me feel good. To know that science isn’t just… pain. Is that… ridiculous?”  
  
It was Jane’s turn to shake her head very quickly. “No, no, of course not… let’s just…” She shifted, wearing nothing but her open lab coat, a tee-shirt without a bra (because long hours in the lab were made longer by the constant pinching and really, she didn’t exactly need one), and a pair of soft plain cotton panties on the exam table. “Let’s just go on with the experiment, shall we..?”

The grin was back, and Bucky’s free hand was on her thigh, parting it from the other with a gentleness that always surprised her could come from a man who had spent seventy years brutally murdering people. The fingers of his mechanical arm were cold against her through the thin, damp cotton and she gasped, causing Bucky to put two fingers against her mouth softly.  
  
“Ssssh… Stark.”  
  
“Ri-right… shit…”

A light tremor ran through the smooth metal, and even as the steel fingers vibrated lightly against the hood of her clit, she couldn’t help internally remarking upon the insane amount of _control_ he must have had over the tiny joints and wires and mechanisms in that arm in order to create such a short rapid motion, and _goddddddddddd_ , was she _really_ fucking thinking about _physics_ during a time like this!? That whole science thing had just been… just been…  
  
“You know, science was a good excuse to try this,” said Bucky in a low, throaty undertone, and Jane blushed ever so slightly at the realization that she wasn’t the only one who had been curious about… exactly what that arm, and those fingers, were capable of… and neither one of them was going to regret wondering about it, either.


	4. (Clint/Pietro) V is for Voyeurism

**V: Voyeurism** _**(SilverHawk for ~dresupi on Tumblr)**   
_

The annoying little bastard would never see _this_ coming.

He’d ordered it from some website Kate used to get nerdy shit for all over the house, such as Tardis bath curtains and little D20 salt and pepper shakers and other weird shit that didn’t always make sense but was still kinda fun and quirky regardless. It was called the [Annoy-a-Tron](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thinkgeek.com%2Fproduct%2Fihvg%2F%3Fitm%3Dannoy_a_tron%26rkgid%3D274593751%26cpg%3Doggdgt1%26source%3Dgoogle_gadgets%26adpos%3D1t1%26creative%3D74897117205%26device%3Dc%26matchtype%3De%26network%3Dg%26gclid%3DCNTttLPR08sCFQ5qfgod_PkKzA&t=ODQ2MGU1ODA3ZDdkN2I5YmZlOWRkZjllYTJkZGViYjgzOTU4ZDdlZCxtNFA5U0lMWQ%3D%3D), and if it was anything as good as the website made it look, it was going to be the fucking perfect prank to drive Quicksilver absolutely fucking _insane_.

Being a super-cool super-spy assassin dude made certain things easier. Such as breaking and entering into the twins’ shared fiftieth-floor condo in Avengers Tower on a night he knew Wanda would be training with Bucky and the speed-freak would be out doing laps around the building and all over downtown Manhattan. It was easy enough to access the apartment through the ventilation system – Hawkeye was a huge fan of the beautifully cliche – and to figure out which one was hot-rod’s bedroom.

Unless he’d developed a recent obsession with candles, incense, wooden boxes, and weird bundles and stinky twigs, which he couldn’t help thinking was _far_ too classy for Pietro.

“How many pairs of running shoes does that guy _need_?” he wondered aloud, as he climbed up into the higher shelves of Pietro’s bedroom closet, looking for a loose board or somewhere clever he could hide the Annoy-a-Tron, which was wedged in his back pocket. He pushed aside a pair of old Adidas sneakers (at least, he presumed that was what they had once been, as they currently resembled a torn and twisted mish-mash of rubber and fabric that could only still be in here because they held some sort of nostalgic and sentimental value) and wedged his butt into the top shelf, feeling along the lines of the ceiling.

It was at that moment that he heard the front door slam, and the hairs on the back of his neck snapped up on end, his eyes widening. Oh, shit. One of the twins was home, and while he at first hoped it was Wanda, and she would disappear into her room, he began praying it was Pietro, because at least the asshole one wouldn’t be able to hear his goddamn – _shutthefuckupandstopthinkingClintNOW!!!_

He held his breath and slowly inched his way down to the floor of the closet, trying to decipher any sounds that would give away which of the Maximoffs had returned home early, when the bedroom door was flung open, and Clint instinctually went deathly still and held his breath in his lungs.

_Futz it all…_

Pietro likely couldn’t hear anything, a pair of iPod headphones wedged firmly in his ears as he moved about the bedroom familiarly, depositing various items around and humming under his breath. A water bottle, his iWatch… he unlaced and removed his sneakers with a soft, _“Oops,”_ as if remembering he was supposed to take them off before entering the apartment, placing them neatly on the shelf beside the bed. His headphones were pulled out and he dumped himself on the bed with a heavy sigh.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Clint was antsy, breathing in a very slow, deep, controlled manner. He needed to get the _futz_ outta here before his freaky sister came home and heard the cogs of his brain moving through the walls. For a moment, he wondered if Pietro was falling asleep… it wouldn’t be hard to believe, given how much energy he likely had to burn with how hard he pushed himself with his speed. He was probably the only person on the team who pushed his training harder than Clint, which only added to the tension between the two of them. Either way, it would make sense that he come home and crash, unless he had to do something to release the adrenaline and “warm down”.

The dream was shattered when the bed springs creaked and groaned under the weight of the man shifting, as Pietro rolled onto his feet and began to strip out of his long-sleeve athletic shirt. Clint rolled his eyes. Great, and now he would have to sit here and watch the bastard through the crack in the door, as he flexed those freckled, porcelain muscles and sent the aroma of Axe bodyspray everywhere…

Clint averted his eyes after a few minutes, because he could already feel his soft, worn jeans tightening at the front and his mouth was growing dry. Goddamn it. It wasn’t as if there was anything _attractive_ about the annoying cocky little shit, so why the hell his little agent was deciding to get suited up, he had _no_ idea…

A quick glance through the crack in the door told him that, now glad in a pair of navy blue boxer briefs, Pietro had slumped back down onto the bed on his back, getting comfortable amidst the mess of blankets and sheets with his head wedged against the pillows at the end nearest the wall. He gave a heavy, tired sigh, though one that almost sounded pleasurable… 

… and that was the moment Clint realized his hand was in his pants, and was very much _not still_.

_Aww, c’mon… you mean I gotta seriously sit here an’ listen to this!? GOD. THIS WHOLE LET’S FUCK WITH THE CARNY BOY THING’S JUST NOT FUNNY ANYMORE._

Grumbling perfectly silently to himself, Clint remained very still in the closet and did his best to evenly disperse his weight between his thighs and the wall behind him so that he could relax a little. But one part of his body wasn’t relaxing… and it was growing harder and harder (pun _not_ intended) to ignore the weak little noises the Mutant was making as his body squirmed and bucked into his hand on the bed. He seemed to be taking his time, enjoying himself… Clint tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. A few beads of sweat had begun to gather on his head, one of them tracing the arc of his eyebrow and trickling down his nose to the tip.

Pietro’s moans were picking up in both pace and volume as he worked himself with one hand. Despite how dangerous it was on the field, as his erection bulged angrily against his zipper, he reached to switch his hearing aid down ever so slightly… _anything_ to kill the desperate, whimpering, whining noises the other Avenger was making on the other side of the closet door. His hand came back up, resting on his thigh for just an instant before, in a moment of weakness, he lifted to palm his groin through his jeans to relieve some of the pressure.

_Futz you, speed-freak. Futz you, futz you, futz you –_

“Nngh, Barton…” 

Clint froze in the closet. Shit, he’d been caught… although… Pietro wasn’t reacting. As the seconds ticked by, the archer began to realize with a sense of shock – and, in some way, excitement – that Pietro didn’t know he was there. Pietro was _thinking about him_.

Peering through the closet and adjusting his position, Clint could see the Sokovian’s face. He was laying supine amidst the blankets, gripping the pillow behind his head with his free hand, biting down hard on his lower lip. And for a moment, all Clint could think about was how much he wished _he_ was the one biting that lip.

“Barton… ungh, gonna fuck you… so hard…”

 _Oh, really now?_ he thought with a smug grin, counting the terrifyingly large amount of ways he could burst in on the younger man at that moment, use the element of surprise to overwhelm him, and show him _who_ would fuck _who_ so hard. The idea of pinning the squirming, white-haired man down… finding pressure points and rendering him able to only use his smart mouth for his defence…

God _damn_ , he was getting dark. He had clearly been spending too much time hearing about the ins and outs of Steve and Nat’s relationship.

Biting his tongue, Clint stayed as still as he could in the closet, trying not to move, or to think, or to react at _all_ to what was going on not ten feet to his right. He fought to keep his breathing calm, struggled to ignore the pounding of his heart and the throbbing between his legs. If someone had told him two days ago that he would be hiding in Quicksilver’s closet listening to him whack one off, and he was _turned on_ by it, he would’ve had them committed.

And yet, here he was. And it looked like here he would stay, until one of four things happened:

Pietro finished jacking off and fell asleep, and he was able to escape.

Pietro’s sister came home and blew his brain up for perving on her brother while he was jacking off.

Pietro caught him, and stopped jacking off in order to beat him senseless.

Or… Pietro caught him, and… Clint bit his lip. Oh, yeah… that would be good whack fuel for his _own_ self later on tonight, when he finally escaped his tracksuit-laden prison and was able to relieve himself in the privacy of his own home.


	5. (Bucky/Clint) C is for Crossdressing

**C: Crossdressing _(WinterHawk for~cinnaatheart on Tumblr)_**

It all started with Peggy Carter.

The _snap-snap-snapping_ of those shiny red high-heels against concrete that sent a shiver down his spine every time she put her foot down. The fabric of her dresses and how it flowed, how it billowed about her in the breeze, caressing her curves and no doubt teasing her nerve endings with its delicate touch. The way her eyelashes, so unnaturally dark and full and thick, curled and fluttered against her soft, porcelain skin every time she blinked, smiled, or laughed.

For the longest time, James Barnes thought he was in love with Peggy Carter. It wasn’t until he was removed from the program, _saved_ if you will, and he found himself replaying the same thoughts like a scratched record when he saw Natasha’s heels or Darcy’s dresses or Kate’s dark, full, thick lashes… that was when he realized that he wasn’t in _love_ with Peggy Carter all those years ago, he had wanted to _be her_. 

Bucky was fortunate that he was so volatile. No, wait, let me finish – not because he _enjoyed_ being a loose canon that half the team didn’t exactly trust yet, but because it meant that, quite often, when the team received more delicate orders and were concerned about bringing the Winter Soldier along, he was ordered to remain at the tower.

He grumbled and rolled his eyes in that gruff, dark, annoyed way that they all expected him to… but deep down, he loved his private time. He loved it more than anything in the world, because it was the only time he felt comfortable enough to be… _himself_.

The pantyhose were his favourite. There was something about the way you peeled it up your leg, how it consumed you and touched you all over. It made his skin tingle. Five months ago, Sam and Steve had been discussing the pros and cons of shaving or waxing your body hair for maximum speed and efficiency, and it had given him an excuse to keep his body fairly hairless. It meant that the pantyhose slid onto him like _silk_. 

He loved high-heels, too. He loved how they stretched his calves and tightened everything up, and he just felt… _sexy._  Was that wrong? Of course it was, it was… no matter what he’d read on the Internet since he’d been allowed to start surfing, it was weird, and freaky, and _wrong_ to wear women’s clothes.

So, why didn’t that stop him…?

Bucky looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He loved his hair this length… it was shaggy and soft, falling in his face in delicate waves that tumbled down almost to his shoulders now. He had shaved not two hours ago, and while his face was a little sore, it gave him a much smoother, more feminine appearance. He had darkened his eyes with mascara and eyeshadow, but not his usual ‘war paint’… instead, he had been teaching himself to mimic Natasha’s usual smoky look, which he was in love with and seemed to suit him. Following the silhouette of the little black dress up to his smooth chest, he unscrewed and screwed back the lipstick between his fingers nervously, biting on his lower lip.

If this was so wrong… then why did it feel so _right_ …?

He sighed and nervously pushed his hair back enough so that he could see himself in the mirror, raising the small burgundy lipstick to his face so that he could carefully apply it the way he had watched women in movies do it. He always messed it up a little, but… he was actually getting pretty good…

Bucky screwed the cap back on the lipstick and wiped away a little that had gone over the edges with a damp fingertip, before admiring himself. If you could call it that… he looked awkward, he looked clunky, and his metal arm wasn’t helping matters at all. But the clothing felt so incredible against his skin, he just couldn’t…

“Hey, man, are y – WHOOOOAAAA!!!!!”

Assassin’s reflexes kicked in regardless of his attire, and the sensually-clad Winter Soldier snapped to attention at the sound of a voice in the apartment he _swore_ was empty, lunging behind him and seizing the intruder by the throat with his metal fingers. He squeezed tight and flung whoever it was against the wall beside the mirror, lifting him high enough to –

“… _Barton!?_ The _hell_ are you doing here!?”

Bucky watched the other man struggle in the vise of his grip, his fingers clawing at the metal, and for a moment he actually considered _killing him_ to preserve his secret. It was certainly the course of action he would have taken beforehand, but now… Steve would probably frown upon him eviscerating a team mate, and he didn’t need another one of his lectures right now.

He dropped the blond with a grunt, stepping away from him and glowering beneath the shroud of his hair, which was somehow even more terrifying to Clint because the super-soldier was wearing a sexy little black number. As Clint panted against the wall, trying to regain his breath so that he could speak, Bucky snarled again and doubled around, trapping the archer in another stranglehold this time without lifting him off of the floor.

“Barton…” he rasped, breathing hard and heavy in the other man’s face as he bore down on him viciously. “If you ever… _ever_ … tell a _single person_  about what you saw today…” 

Clint shook his head quickly, grunting against the thumb on his esophagus. “N-no… dude… seriously, it’s… it’s okay…”

His hands were on the move, sliding down between them, and for a second time, Bucky considered just snapping his neck and taking the easy route out of this predicament. But instead, he dropped his eyes, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Ssh, just… here…”

Hawkeye wiggled the button of his jeans free and unzipped his fly, gripping both triangles of denim and pulling them out wide as if to fully show off what was inside. Bucky blinked twice, quiet for a good long while before releasing his tight grasp on Clint’s throat ever so slightly and responding.

“Is that… women’s underwear?”

“No, it’s my underwear, I bought it for me, so it’s mine,” the other Avenger shot back, not bothering to tuck anything away just yet. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the fact that Bucky was just… full-out _staring_ at his junk. The Winter Soldier continued to admire the archer’s package in what could only be described as the softest, _silkiest_ looking lace-trimmed panties in a beautiful shade of lavender, before looking back up at the other man.

“… are they soft?”

“Unbelievably fucking soft. Go on, feel ‘em.”

“What?”

“I’m serious, go on.” Clint nudged his hips forward, with confidence even the ninety-some-year-old assassin found terrifying. “Feel ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ like it, man.”

Bucky wondered for a moment if he really was serious, or if this was another one of his hilarious little _pranks_ he was oh so famous for pulling. Bucky had told him a _long_ time ago that, were he ever on the receiving end of one of those pranks, he would make sure that his revenge was five times as humiliating and seventy-five times as _painful_. That being said, he had a feeling the smaller Avenger wouldn’t fuck with him on purpose, not after that. 

Choosing to take his chances, Bucky slid his organic arm between the two of them and gingerly stroked the backs of two fingers against the bulge in Clint’s silk panties. It _was_ soft, Clint was right… he bit his lip, becoming more curious, and slowly wrapped his fingers around the other man’s package, squeezing and stroking it.

“Lemme guess,” said Clint, leaning back comfortably against the wall as Bucky explored him, “you’re wearing cotton? Under that number? Nuh uh. You need silk, buddy. I got some clean stuff if you’re interested?”

Bucky snapped his eyes up to him, his cheeks darkening a little. “You… for me?” he asked, confused. Why the hell was the other man being so _casual_ about all this!? They were talking about dressing up as _women_ , for fuck’s sakes!

“Yeah, why not? I mean, you gotta be about my size, unless you got some super-soldier semen bags hangin’ out under there.”

Bucky smirked and squeezed Clint hard. He talked too much, and the little gasp as the soldier crushed his semi-hard cock was enough to shut him up temporarily.

“I’m about your size,” he replied darkly, giving him another squeeze before letting him go, and Clint smirked at him against the wall, semi-breathless from the moment the two of them had just shared. Bucky was moving back to the table, hastily scraping up all of his make-up into a little black bag. Clint ensnared a lipstick between two fingers of his draw hand.

“Oh no, man, Rimmel? Kate Moss has _no business_ telling us what makes us look good.” He tapped the lipstick against the palm of his other hand, ignoring Bucky’s quizzical look. “MAC makes pretty good lip colour, and Loreal, actually. Man, are you lucky I discovered _your_ dirty little secret!”

“Watch it, Barton. Killing you’s still the easiest way to make sure no one else finds out about this.”

“So, I guess you don’t want me to show you how to contour your face and chest?” Clint flicked the lipstick up and caught it without looking. “I’ve got face charts. And false eyelashes. But if you don’t want my help, I guess you could just kill me. I’m cool either way.”

Bucky folded his arms across his chest, which looked both hilarious and sexy in that slinky black dress, and Clint found himself thinking things about the Winter Soldier that Steve would scrub his imagination out with soap for thinking. He did his best not to smirk back, and Bucky eventually sighed and shook his head.

“Fine. Fuck you. Make me pretty.”

“Atta girl,” said Clint, grinning from ear-to-ear as he zipped up his fly, emptied the contents of Bucky’s makeup bag onto the bedspread, and ushered the other man to perch on the edge of it. He pat Bucky’s shoulder and popped open a foundation case.

“Sit still. Twenty minutes from now, you won’t even _recognize_ yourself, beautiful. Trust me.”

And for some strange, unknown reason… Bucky did.


	6. (Bruce/Kate) U is for Uniform Kink

**U: Uniform Kink _(HulkEye♀ for ~awkwardnormalcy on Tumblr)_**

_Fwwwwiiiiiiiiiiiip._

“Okay… okay, that? Needs to be moved out of here.” 

Kate Bishop paused in drawing back her bow a second time, aiming for the two smaller targets at the top of the practice rig Tony had set up for her, the two larger ones already both punctured dead-centre with two simultaneous arrows. The whole rig was Tony’s idea, something to do with… testing her speed, or something, _whatever_ , Bruce had deliberately ignored everything the two of them were saying. In fact, the instant she had entered the lab, Bruce had pretty much done whatever he could to tune them out entirely.

“Beg your pardon, old guy?”

“That… contraption? You need to get Tony to move it to another room.”

Kate huffed a little and lowered her bow, loosening the string on it so that she could glare back over her shoulder at the scientist. “You know, everyone always told me you were the _nice_ guy on the team,” she shot back, rolling her blue eyes. Bruce kept his own eyes down low, to avoid having to stare at the way her waist was contorted as she turned in that… that purple… _thing_ that she wore. How someone could move in something so… _skin-tight_ … he had no idea.

Bruce shivered.

“And Tony said I have to do it here. Apparently the upper levels are busy right now.”

“Busy with _what_?”

Kate gave him The Look. “Do _you_ ever ask Tony what the hell he’s doing?” she asked, and Bruce had to admit, she had a point. He sighed heavily.

“Okay, well… just… try to…” _Not look so fucking good while you’re doing it?_  “… make too much noise…? I’m running numbers here and I’m really not a huge fan of numbers.”

“Pfft.” Kate rolled her eyes again and drew her bow up to eye-level. Bruce snuck a look, and wished he hadn’t; his pants tightened even further as he caught sight of her in her ready stance, arm pulled back, breathing slow, body perfectly taut and tense beneath that tight purple fabric.

_Oh, sweet Jesus, why does he do this to me?_

_Fwwwwiiiiiiiiiiiip._

Bruce physically flinched as she let the arrows go, feeling something stir within him… something which, for once, wouldn’t result in him turning big and green and angry and ragey and smashy. Hopefully. She was stretching now, one arm over her head, tugging her muscles loose with the other hand, and Bruce swore on his life, for a moment he actually thought he might faint.

On a mission, it was easy – he was either buried away in the Quinjet awaiting orders, or crushing everything in sight between his hands, so he really didn’t have a lot of time to pay attention to his comrades. But when she was here, and she was training… and of course, she _had_ to train in her uniform, that bastard Rogers had told her, to ‘learn the limits of it’, or something like that. 

All it did was make him miserable. And hard. Which, in turn, made him feel awkward as hell, because she was probably young enough to be his daughter and there was absolutely _no way_ she could _ever_ be interested in someone like him. 

He swallowed and did his best to focus on the screen in front of him, but the numbers were just blurring into each other. Or wearing extremely tight purple pleather. He ground his teeth anxiously.

“Dude, is it seriously _that_ distracting?”

“Yes,” he croaked out, his voice catching so that it was barely audible, and he snapped to attention as he realized he hadn’t been answering a voice in his head, but instead _her_ voice, and she was staring at him again with those cool blue eyes that demanded an answer. Bruce sweat under her gaze.

“I, uh… well, it’s just…” He cleared his throat and removed his glasses. “I’m very… paranoid… about the lab. I don’t know why Tony wants you guys shooting arrows around in here.”

She put a hand on her hip and tilted to one side, shifting her weight over to one leg, and Bruce felt himself have an aneurysm. It wasn’t… _fair_ , and the holes in her costume to allow her more freedom of movement weren’t helping matters any. His eyes dropped again, shyly.

“Is it gonna make you Hulk out?” asked Kate eventually. “Do I gotta worry about you Hulking out?”

“No –” he answered quickly. She was the _last_ person he wanted thinking that of him. “No, I just… I need to, uh… you go, you finish.” He was hastily standing up, nearly knocking over his coffee mug and his chair as he did so. “I’m gonna just, I’m gonna go, uh… I’m gonna be busy, ‘til you’re done, ‘kay? You, um… good luck, with it all.”

And with that, he made his escape, nearly walking into the door before he remembered it was a pull and not a push, despite having worked in this lab every day for the past two years. While he knew his friend was no doubt somewhere smirking over the whole situation, he didn’t quite expect it to be so _close by;_  Tony stood in the corridor with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Upon seeing Bruce, he lifted his wristwatch to his eyes and gave a nod. “Hmm, twenty-seven minutes. Not bad, buddy, not bad. I was expecting slightly less, but…”

“You’re a twisted son of a bitch, you know that?” muttered Bruce, trying to shoulder his way past his friend, but as usual Tony managed to find a way to turn that into an invitation for him to throw his arm across his back and join him in wherever he was going.

“You’re the one with a crush on a fourteen-year-old.”

“ _Nineteen_ , Tony. She’s nineteen.”

“Still, how old are you? And you get boners over pretty girls in pretty uniforms.”

Bruce stopped dead in his tracks, and fixed her with a glare. “Darcy Lewis,” was all he said, in a cold and vicious tone, and then he continued on down the hall, as Tony stood and rolled his eyes and grinned.

“Yeah, yeah, well… no one ever said I’m not a hypocrite, Bruce!”


	7. (Steve/Tony) A is for Auction

**A: Auction _(Stony for ~awesomeavocadolove on Tumblr)_**

The world had grown a great deal colder and several shades darker since President Trump was voted into power. While there was circulating rumour that the man had extremely tight connections to HYDRA, no one fully expected him to be so… _forward_ about it once he was elected.

It was the Muslims and the people of colour who were sought after first. Birth certificates were destroyed and documented immigrants suddenly found themselves mysteriously without any paperwork, as everyone with a non-white skin denomination was slowly and carefully weeded out of the United States common and into specific… well, they were called ‘towns’, but they were nothing better than the World War II ghettos that the Jews in Germany and Asian-Americans in the US were forced to live in. It wasn’t long after that – six months at most, perhaps – that martial law was instilled in full force, with nine o’clock curfews and armed officers that called themselves ‘police’ situated on every street corner.

And then, not even a year later… they came for anything that didn’t fit their cookie-cutter model of a citizen. The white, Christian, heterosexual, Alpha- or Beta- male with his little wife. Amongst those who were targeted were Alpha-females, who were presumed to be a ‘threat’ and a ‘sin’, and the Omegas… especially the males.

Apparently, being the genius billionaire philanthropist owner of a Fortune 500 company didn’t protect you from being discriminated against.

Tony Stark had always been very open about his designation, claiming that it didn’t make him ‘weak’ or ‘effeminate’ as someone would call him, but instead it actually opened him up to far more sexual enjoyment than any of his Alpha- or Beta- peers. He was a notorious ‘womanizer’ (though some wouldn’t be so quick to use that term given the designations involved) of Alpha-females, and would hole up for days at a time during his heats with Natasha, or Pepper, or another woman of the correct designation who would work him over until his body was calm again.

He had also always been a huge opponent of HYDRA, and a huge critique of Donald Trump’s rough-’n’-ready, hypocritical business practices and morals. Which meant, of course, that _his_ auction was going to be closed… purely to those within HYDRA, who would ensure that the rest of his life would be spent in suffering and torment, as the former Avenger deserved.

Four-point-seven _million_ dollars was a lot of ready cash to pay for a human being. And as he was being _forced_ (because he never just allowed them to _walk_ him anywhere) blindfolded and gagged into the back of a truck, he wondered who the hell wanted to hurt him badly enough that they would be willing to pay _four-point-seven million dollars_ for the opportunity.

 _No_ , a small voice inside his head told him, as they did another few loops back on themselves in the vehicle, no doubt to try and confuse him. It was the part of his mind that still held onto his old ego… for his own sake. _Not the opportunity. The PRIVILEGE._

After what felt like hours of driving, the vehicle finally stopped, and a half-minute later the back door was opened and the shirtless former-Avenger was being dragged out of the van by his upper body. The gravel scraped like tiny little knives against his bare feet, but dropping deadweight was more amusing for him, and no doubt more annoying for his captors. If they wanted to physically, emotionally, and probably sexually torture him, then he was going to make them fucking _work_ for it.

After a month in captivity, it was the _least_ he owed them.

Tony was dragged inside by the two men (he assumed, in his usual sexist manner), who dumped him ungracefully on his knees on what felt like carpet. He grunted, shrugging a little to try and dislodge the blindfold, and the instant the ball-gag was out of his mouth he was spitting one-liners in his traditional fashion.

“Okay, so, first things first? I ordered the _scenic_ tour, and –”

“Shut up, Stark.” The voice was familiar… one he hadn’t heard in years, but immediately recognized. His entire body froze as if every drop of blood in his veins had turned to ice, and he wasn’t ready for the blindfold to be removed when it was, blinding him with dim sunlight from the gap in the set of curtains to his left.

“I just paid almost five million dollars for your ass, the least you can do is be a good prisoner and not sass your Captain.”

The Omega’s warm brown eyes were already welling up with tears, tears that he would never have dreamed of showing the _perfect goddamn soldier_ two years ago, back when American freedom was still a thing, and a person could breathe without HYDRA putting the barrel of a gun to their temple and demanding to know why. His whole body shook with stifled sobs, even as the two men who had brought him in worked to untie his hands from behind his back.

“St-Steve…?”

Captain America smiled, weakly but with that same determined charm, his blue eyes sparkling with tears in the dimness. “Hey, Tony,” he said in a low, soft voice, stepping toward the man in order to put both hands on his shoulders and kneel in front of him. Tony could only imagine how broken he looked, given the sympathetic expression on Steve’s face, but at that point he didn’t even care.

“You…”

“We heard they were selling you off tonight. We’ve got… friends in low places.” He looked up at Sam, who was finishing stripping the ropes from Tony’s wrists, and was smirking at him and shaking his head in that way he did when he knew Steve was more happy than he wanted to show everyone. Scott took the ropes from Sam and crossed the room with them, disappearing behind a door. Sam threw Steve a look.

“If you boys need anything, holler, okay?”

Steve nodded, and his friend disappeared through the same exit as Lang had done, which closed behind them, leaving the two former friends kneeling in the middle of the large empty room together in silence.

Steve was the one to break that silence. “Surprised to see me?”

“No shit,” uttered Tony, his hands hanging limply by his sides, wrists raw and bloody from months of abuse. “How –”

“Avengers don’t die, Tony,” the Captain said sternly. “Nor do we disappear, or fade out, or give up. We promised we would avenge this world, no matter what… and that’s what we’re going to do.

“And personally,” he added with a slight smirk, squeezing his friend’s shoulder as if he hardly dared to believe he was actually there, “I think five million dollars is a small price to pay to have Iron Man on our side again… if you’re in. If not, well, we’re gonna need to find someone else who can work that suit as well as you did.”

And with that, there was a glorious spark of happiness in Tony’s eyes – something that hadn’t been there since HYDRA stormed his tower a month ago and had taken him into custody – something that was only achievable at the idea that perhaps, once more, he would be able to fly… and do something _good_ for this world.


	8. (Tony/Bucky/Darcy) A is for Auction

**A: Auction _(WinterIronShock for a Tumblr Anonymouse who didn’t notice I listed "most M/M/F pairings" as one of my few NOTPs – enjoy!)_**

Darcy sat on the wooden chair, a single bead of sweat trickling over the bridge of her nose and down to the tip, hanging there for just a single heartbeat before dropping onto her breast. She had worn the low-cut top deliberately, and Kate had even lent her one of her lacy purple push-up bras, which… well, it would’ve ‘pushed up’ anyone who was a B-cup, like the female Hawkeye herself, but the DDDs (that’s Darcy’s Double Dees) were barely able to remain comfortably inside the cups, which caused a little, erm, spillage at the low neckline of the shirt.

That was good though, all part of the plan… because she needed to make sure that she _looked_ the part she was trying to play.

She could feel eyes on her as she sat perfectly still on the chair, pacing her breaths so that no one else in the room would know how nervous she was to fuck this up. She _couldn’t_ fuck this up… she just couldn’t.

Her entire reputation depended on it.

“And the bidding for a night with the absolutely _gorgeous_ piece of ass with the long, flowing, chestnut locks starts at –”

“Barton.” Steve shook his head from the front-right table near the stage, shaking his head, though he was wearing a grin. He was already a little tipsy, which was no small feat – it had taken from of the best Asgardian ale to get himself and Thor to that state, but given the fact that this was all for charity, they had both decided that they should be allowed to enjoy a lack of sobriety as well.

“I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. If you can’t behave yourself, I’m not gonna let you emcee anymore.”

Clint, who was dressed in ~~what Clint called a suit~~ a suit and purple tie and leaning casually against the podium on stage-left, rolled his eyes and went back to his notes. “ _Anyway_ , as I was _saying,_ ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary friends… the bidding for a night with this gorgeous young brunette starts at just _thirty dollars_!”

Darcy threw her hand into the air, but Thor beat her to it.

“Fifty of your great green American dollars!” the Asgardian prince bellowed, thrusting a fist into the air. He didn’t quite understand yet how auctions worked, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, so Clint was just letting him roll with it.

“All right, fifty dollars! Do I hear fifty-five? If I hear fifty-five, will our beautiful starlet show us a beautiful smile?”

Sitting on the stool in the middle of the stage, wearing a grey knit sweater a size too big for him and looking perhaps even _more_ sullen and grumpy than when they had first pulled him out of the HYDRA deployment bunker, Bucky shot Clint a look that told the archer if he forced a smile out of him, it might be _the last thing he ever did_.

Darcy felt somewhat bad for him, but at the same time, he _had_ reorganized the arrows in Clint’s spare quiver at the gym, despite knowing how persnickety Hawkeye was about his gear. That had been an escalation from another prank, which was an escalation from another prank… and now, it came down to the SHIELD annual charity drive, where they auctioned specific people off and donated the money to charity.

Bucky, of course, was less than thrilled. But so far, Steve had managed to convince him to stick around and humiliate himself.

“Fifty-five!” said Darcy, throwing her hand up. Behind her, Natasha laughed.

“Bucky, relax, it’s not like whoever wins you is really going to make you have sex with them,” she said, leaning into Steve, who had an arm around her after paying two-hundred and ten dollars for her in the last round. He hadn’t meant to spend so much, but it was for charity, and Maria had been bidding him up.

“Unless you want it?” Phil tossed out, and several people in what small crowd remained from the main event party laughed. Bucky’s head snapped around and he glowered viciously at the older man, who just smirked back at him and lifted his beer bottle.

“Sixty great green Ameri –”

“Sixty to Shakespeare! Do I hear sixty-five?”

“Sixty-five!” Darcy insisted, shooting the blond warrior a challenging look through her bangs. She only had a hundred bucks to spend and she _wasn’t_ going to be out-bid by drunken Thunderthighs and his _great green American dollars_ that he was so proud to have gotten about an hour ago from Tony.

Thor grinned back at her, licking his lower lip as if wondering whether or not to push the feisty little girl any further.

“Seventy of –”

“Seventy! Care to take it too –?”

“ _Eighty_!” Darcy demanded, shooting him another look. _Don’t you touch it, big guy… don’t you dare fucking touch it._

Thor chuckled and stood up a little. “Should I let her have him?” he asked the crowd, to mixed response from all of the onlookers. Kate could be heard yelling for Darcy to ‘take him out’, and from the back of the room, Lady Sif called for Thor to ‘bring the pain’, whatever that meant.

“All right, all right.” Thor grinned and sat down, holding his palms out in a defensive manner. “I will not stand in the way of Lady Darcy’s mission to liberate this poor man from his own humiliation.”

“Shame,” said Steve, and several more people laughed. On-stage, Bucky rolled his eyes and folded his arms grumpily. 

“All right then,” announced Clint, standing more upright on his podium. “Then I guess this is Mr. Barnes for eighty dollars even! Going once… going _twice_ …”

“ _Two hundred dollars._ ”

Everyone turned their head to the table where Tony was sitting with Rhodey, Rhodey’s date for the evening, and Pepper. The calm, cool, collected voice could only have belonged to Mr. Stark himself, who was leaning back in his chair, peering over at Darcy through burgundy designer lenses. On-stage, Clint grinned, and Bucky sighed and shook his head as he realized his misery wasn’t quite over yet.

“Aaaaaaand Mr. Stark has joined the race with a bid of two _hundred_ dollars! Miss Lewis, care to spank him back – I mean,” he quickly back-peddled once he saw Steve’s mouth open again, “care to offer another bid?”

Darcy scoffed and slumped back in her chair. “With _my_ debt? I don’t think so.”

“Hey, sweetheart, my bedroom door’s always open if you want to share the prize with me later tonight,” cooed Tony, lowering his sunglasses a little, and both Darcy and Bucky snorted in revulsion and recoiled a little visibly.

“I would rip your nuts off, Stark,” Bucky growled from the stage, which caused Clint and several others in the crowd – including Tony himself – to burst into laughter.

“Okay, okay, in all seriousness… Mr. Barnes to Mr. Stark for two hundred dollars! Going once… going _twice_ …”

Bucky glowered like the volatile time-bomb he was on-stage. Darcy glared at him in her chair, vowing silent revenge.

“… aaaaaaaand _sold_ to Mr. Stark!”

Tony sat up a little, peering over his shades at Darcy from across the room as Pepper leaned over and whispered something to Rhodey which caused both of them to laugh. “Hey, nerd girl… what I said before? Totally meant it. Pepper’s super down with it an’ all, she’s busy with work and she prefers it if I’m tired when she comes to bed.”

Darcy sneered at him. “ _Thanks_ , but I think I’m gonna stay the best thing you’ll never, ever have,” she replied, flicking a piece of popcorn from her own table across to the next one and managing to deposit it neatly down the lapels of his jacket with speed, skill, and accuracy that would’ve made even the Knicks raise an eyebrow or two.


	9. (Bucky/Darcy/Clint) D is for Double-Penetration

**D: Double-Penetration _(WinterShockHawk for ~ladymariianna on Tumblr)_**

Darcy always felt annoyed when the boys had their fun without her.

Because it was _really_ hard to wake up to the sound of soft moans and whimpers, and roll over within the tangle of night-sweaty bedsheets, only to find your _one_ bed buddy tonsils-deep around your _other_ bed buddy, making annoying sucking and licking sounds and bobbing his butt up in the air in a way that was just _begging_ to be spanked. 

“Do you have to do that _right_ next to me?”

Groaning, Bucky tightened his grip on Clint’s short blond hair to make sure the man would continue his ministrations and not pause to deliver… whatever witty one-liner he was probably desperate to get out that that point. 

“You were snoring, he was complaining about the noise, I had morning wood. You’re a student, do math.”

“Pfft. I don’t take arithmetic, super-sulker.” Darcy rolled out of bed, taking the opportunity to whip her hand sharply across Clint’s exposed bare ass before disappearing into the en suite bathroom and tugging the door partially closed behind her.

Even as she put toothpaste on her brush and did her best not to scrub at her gums too angrily, she was devising some sort of revenge. It was what their odd, three-way relationship seemed to be about… pranking one another again and again, trying to get one-up on someone else, maybe with the other’s help. It was fun, and quirky, and unusual, and she was enjoying herself… which was what it was all about when you were in your early twenties, after all.

As she rinsed her brush and washed her mouth out, she suddenly had a stroke of genius. After all… Clint _had_ drunkenly agreed last night that, yes, given the way his brain worked, he probably _would_ identify as a feminist… it would be interesting to see what he thought of…

The boys didn’t seem to notice when she wandered back into the bedroom. Which worked in her favour. They probably assumed she was going to get dressed and go into the living room, or come over and paw at them until they adjusted into a better position where she could partake as well. However, Darcy thought – as she pulled her secret weapon from her bedside drawer, as well as a condom, which she silently opened with her teeth as she watched Clint’s lips sliding up and down Bucky’s thick, solid girth – they were already in a pretty good position as it was.

The lube she owned was safe for use with condoms, thank the Gods – all of ‘em, up there on Asgard, lookin’ out for all these little Midgardians’ sex lives with all their, y’know, fertilityness – and she had selected the smaller of her three dildos, a pretty little lilac thing with a small head that Kate had given her a year or so ago with the etching of a rose curling around the base. She knew from watching Bucky and Clint go at it how careful she needed to be… but she also knew that the blond man trusted her enough for this. Hell, they’d already, you know… played around enough.

She crawled onto the bed behind Clint and, when Bucky tossed his head up in surprise and saw her kneeling there with the safety-wrapped dildo in one hand and the bottle of lube in the other, the man got a dangerously curious glint in his eyes, one that usually led to trouble, and the corner of his mouth twitched up a little as he grinned at his friend, his hand still tangled in Clint’s hair.

“Hey, Clint,” said Darcy, and the man made a muffled noise in response, as Bucky refused to let him remove his warm, pliant mouth from around his cock. Darcy laughed a little, and rapped her knuckles against one taut buttcheek. “Knock knock, birdbrain. Can I come in?”

Clint made a noise of confusion, and then pulled back sharply from Bucky, enough so that the stronger man actually let him go a little, enough so that he could free himself. He shot her a look back over his shoulder, gasping for breath, and frowned at her.

“Errrrrr, you sure? Brown wings ain’t for the faint of heart, nerdlette.”

“If I can handle the new iOS update on my piece of shit phone, I can handle your ass.” Darcy popped open the bottle and squeezed a generous amount – perhaps too much, but she wanted to err on the side of caution – onto the dildo, putting the bottle down and using her free hand to coat it evenly with a thick, squelching noise. Bucky chuckled, tugging on Clint’s ash-blond hair.

“C’mon, Barton. You in or out?”

“Actually,” said Darcy, “it’s more like, am _I_ in or out here?”

Clint snorted a laugh; he loved a woman who could make him laugh. “Fine, fine, in, just – be kind to my asshole, yeah?”

Bucky snorted and forced Clint’s head back down into his crotch, where the younger man moaned as his lips were dragged up and down Bucky’s cock before he could wrap his lips and tongue around it again and suck it deep into his mouth. “Not a chance,” he said, and he grinned at Darcy, that same evil grin he used when he had one of them pinned down and was about to fuck them senseless.

There was a certain amount of power in penetration. Darcy had done it to herself enough, but never to anyone else, and she had to admit, the sound Clint made – the tiny, soft, desperate little whimper of anticipation – the moment he felt the cold, slippery lube on his skin was intoxicating. She could see why so many men liked to _fuck stuff_. She pressed her bare body against one of his thighs, maintaining a firm, controlled grip on the sex toy as she teased it between his cheeks, searching for the little spot where it would no doubt nestle and… _there_. Clint gasped softly as the head pressed against him, and Bucky reached across him to massage his lower back, still smirking evilly to himself.

“Easy, Barton, c’mon… relax…” he purred, a sound like softened leather on flesh. “It’s her first time and you’re gonna scare her off…”

Darcy chuckled. “It’ll take more than a couple of wussy noises to scare me off, don’t worry about that, boys…”

And so, gently, slowly, and carefully, Darcy worked the object into Clint’s body, both anxious and excited at the foreign sensation of being the _fucker_ rather than the _fuckee_. Her curvy hips lifted up once the dildo was fully inserted, her pubic mound pressing firmly against the silicon base, and she rolled her body as deep and full as she was able to, her hands on his hips, moving the dildo around inside of him in a way that made him purr and moan and whine in all the best ways. 

And, she found after about ten minutes, wedging a vibrator between the dildo and her own body was not only good for him… but it meant that each thrust of her body at least felt like, in some way, she _was_ in fact _actually_ fucking the man she was growing so close to loving who was shivering and trembling underneath her.


	10. (Steve/Nat) U is for Uniform

**U: Uniform Kink _(Romanogers for ~cinnaatheart on Tumblr)_**

It all started with Clint Barton. Because most of the best terrible ideas usually did. 

“Hey there, you twenty-first century guys an’ dolls!” The archer’s annoyingly loud voice was able to throw itself for city blocks at a time when he wanted it to, and the small private den of the Avengers in Stark Tower was far too small and echoey for it to be heard comfortably. Natasha and Steve were both wincing a little whilst trying to ignore him, as they usually did, whereas Pietro and Sam both burst into laughter, and Wanda pursed her lips tightly together and tried not to make it obvious that she was stifling more than just a chuckle or two herself.

“It’s your favourite mythological creature, Captain America!” he proclaimed, and when Natasha finally turned her head to give him the attention he so desperately craved, she was greeted by the sight of her quite possibly suicidal partner puffing his chest out in an over-exaggerated salute, clad in what could only be described as _Steve’s suit._

“And gosh darn it all, doesn’t it feel just _swell_ to be a straight, white, Christian American today!?”

Natasha let her green eyes flicker across to Steve momentarily, wondering what the Captain’s reaction to all of… _this_ would be. Clint would notoriously do almost _anything_ he was pranked to do, especially if he’d hit a joint or had a couple of beers. But acquiring someone’s professional, Avenging gear for a prank… well, his punishment would depend on what kind of mood Steve was in that afternoon, really. She secretly crossed her fingers and hoped she would still _have_ a partner by the end of the day.

Steve raised one ashy eyebrow, a blank unamused look all over his chiselled face. “Mythological creature?”

“That’s _all_ you took away from that?” asked a bewildered and thoroughly amused Sam, and he and Pietro shared another laugh.

“I love… this place…” the Sokovian was choking between snorts of laughter, leaning across on his sister for support, who was now covering her mouth to avoid being rude despite the fact that her eyes were sparkling with humour. Clint responded by striking another salute, staring up at the ceiling with fake pride.

“Of course you love this place, young working immigrant!” he declared, deepening his own low tenor to try and match Steve’s pitch. “This is _America_! Land of liberty, the great American Dream, and angry old white men in suits who yell stuff about abortion all day!”

“All right, birdbrain,” said Natasha, grinning despite her concern that Steve might decide to punish him _publicly_ and make it awkward for the rest of them too. “Jokes over. And please tell us for your sake that you’re wearing your boxers under that.”

“Great boxers made in _America_!” said Clint, and Wanda finally snorted a laugh, shaking her head and mumbling a small apology as she looked away.

“I think it’s sexy,” said Pietro, his accented voice relaxed but in no way sarcastic as he raised his beer bottle to motion to Clint’s stolen attire. “The whole… American thing. I think many girls? They would find this very, very sexy.” 

“I’ll say,” said Sam, tossing his friend a playful wink. “Probably lots’a guys, too.”

“I won’t lie, I’m hard underneath it right now.” Clint’s eyes shifted a little, and Steve visually grimaced, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Natasha wondered if he had started the countdown from ten in his head yet.

“I would not kick it out of bed in the morning,” agreed Pietro, and he sipped his beer, nudging his sister. “Right?”

“I suppose,” she answered with a light shrug, “if you love a country enough, someone wearing that flag would definitely be a turn on for you, yes. Why are you asking _me_ this!?”

“What about you, Romanoff?” asked Sam from the couch by the gaming TV. “The stars and stripes do it for you?”

“For me?” Natasha flickered her eyes up and down her partner’s red, white, and blue clad frame, taking her time, before pursing her lips and shaking her head, tousling her fiery curls.

“I can’t say it does, boys, sorry.”

“What!?” cried Sam and Clint in unison, and it was Natasha’s turn to laugh then.

“What, a Russian who doesn’t get wet over the American flag? I wouldn’t be the first, trust me on that.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Clint, pointedly. “There’s no way you don’t want this studmuffin inside you right now.”

“Okay, Barton, you’ve had your fun.” Steve was using his Commanding Tone, which usually meant he was all business and no playtime. It didn’t often find a home outside of training or the battlefield, but on occasion it reared its head. “My uniform better be back in my locker when I check on it in the next fifteen minutes, or on our next assignment, I’m strapping you to the bottom of the QuinJet again.”

“Aww, Cap, no,” sulked Clint, pretending to scuff his foot along the floor as he turned to leave. 

“Wait, _again_?” Wanda asked, sharing a quizzical look with her brother, but no one else seemed to notice it. Or they knew something the twins didn’t. And people seemed to be getting up to leave now that the show was over; Sam and Pietro had already put off their run long enough to watch Hawkeye make a fool of himself yet again, and Wanda had been meaning to leave when her brother had first entered.

Steve sat on the couch with Natasha, the smallest of smirks playing with his lips. “So… you can’t say it does, huh?” he asked, leaning back on the cushions and studying her closely. Natasha grinned knowingly back at him.

“What, are you surprised?” she asked, quirking one eyebrow. “Do I seem like the kind of girl that it should?”

“No,” Steve mused aloud, chewing on the inside of his lip as he continued to scrutinize her. “I just never know when I can trust you’re telling the truth. You’re too good at lying.”

Natasha smirked at him as she stood up, flirting with her eyes. “Well. Everybody’s got to have a hobby. See you later, Amazing Grace.”

Her workout was just what she needed. Her muscles felt as if they had been torn into thin strips by the time she was done with the circuits, her knees buckling a little under her weight as she dragged herself into the shower and stripped off her gymwear, methodically and carefully to avoid overextending anything. The full force of the water, far too hot as usual and just how she liked it, was soothing in a painful way against her sore, aching limbs and grubby skin. She wet her hair, tugging her fingers through the tangled locks and working out the knots. The steam and scent of coconut surrounded her, smothered her, as she relaxed under the hot jets, taking her time to make sure she was clean and loosened up properly before she shut off the water and reached out for her towel.

Natasha’s head snapped up. Someone was there, someone… who was _very_ good at not being noticed. Someone, possibly, who knew her post-workout routine, which rarely ever changed. Ears pricked beneath soaked, dripping ringlets, Natasha carefully placed her towel back on the rack and took a single step out into the main area of the locker room –

She knew _no one_ who could move that fast, not even Clint. At least, she thought. And at first, she had to admit, she was convinced it was her partner deciding to continue his previous prank, as she was thrown against the tiled shower wall by a figure swathed in red, white, and blue combat gear, blue eyes locking firmly with hers beneath the leather cap.

She relaxed – but only slightly. “Steve!?”

“You know,” he whispered, his mouth barely three inches from hers, “I figured that there was really only _one way_ to figure out if you were lying before or not…”

Besides Bucky, Natasha had _never_ grappled with anybody quite so strong. Even she, probably one of the most highly-capable and skilled agents ever to come out of the Russia, was barely able to move in his grip, which held her fast and tight between his stalwart body and the cold, hard wall. Both of her hands were captured above her head in one of his, the worn leather of his glove sticking to her damp skin and making it impossible to wriggle them at all. His other forearm was braced against her throat, keeping her skull pinned back against the wall so that she couldn’t use it as a weapon. He seemed to know the _exact_ amount of pressure needed to hold her in place perfectly without choking her, which was both a terrifying and extremely erotic thought.

“By assaulting me in the locker room?” she asked him, remaining perfectly still in his control. Her eyelashes fluttered darkly and she met his eye contact with challenge in her own green hues, pupils dilated in the dark.

“No,” the Captain murmured, and as he continued to restrain her, one knee wedged itself between both of hers, the rough fabric parting her thighs and sliding up inch by inch, stopping just before it made contact with any sensitive skin. Natasha expertly bit back a noise, still and silent against him.

“I figured that since you enjoy lying so much,” he purred, leaning in to let his lips brush the tip of her nose as he spoke, “and your body isn’t as _good_ at lying at you are… we would just ask _it_.”

His knee was nudging up and down the insides of her thighs a little, teasing the soft porcelain skin that was still cool and damp from the shower. The velcro front of his suit and the hard, raised edges of the star and design work pressed and rubbed against her stomach, her hips, her sensitive breasts which were crushed between the two of them… Behind closed lips, Natasha grit her teeth and her expression remained perfectly neutral.

“You’re going to have to speak up a bit, I don’t think it heard you.”

Steve _almost_ sneered, except that it was hard to call anything Captain America did a _sneer_. “Oh, I think it’s listening intently…” he uttered, lifting his arm back a little on her chest to brushed his fingers against her plump lips, pushing the index and middle ones ever so slightly between them.

“Bite, please.”

“Most boys don’t actually ask for that when putting things in my mouth,” she responded coolly, before doing as she was told, pinching the tips of his fingers in her mouth so that he was able to slowly peel his hand out of the glove. He left it in her mouth and tightened his grasp on her wrists as his now bare hand slid between the two of them, past his own crotch, to Natasha’s… stroking over the soft patch of very neatly-trimmed hair that it found there.

“Are you ready to stop lying to me, Romanoff?”

“ _Lying_ , Captain?”

Steve smirked. “These games you play… I’ve watched you, and it’s different with certain people. With me…” His fingers ventured down a little further, just starting to tease her outer lips; Natasha, stubborn as ever, didn’t blink. “And I want to know why you’re still lying now… now that it’s just us.”

Natasha gave him a Look. “Confident, aren’t we?”

“I know when I’ve been dealt a winning hand, Agent.”

Her eyes narrowed delightfully and she pursed her lips, a clear invitation. “Well,” she purred, in a tone that was both delicate and inviting, a graceful spider spinning its web, “why don’t you let me judge that hand for myself…?”

Steve’s lips were against hers in an instant, his hand grabbing her thigh and squeezing it hard, his nails leaving tiny crescent-shaped dents in her flesh. She groaned at last, opening her mouth in full invitation, and when his tongue thrust itself inside of her, she caught it with her own, full and wet and messy and vicious and _nothing_ like one would imagine such a passionate kiss to be in some terrible romance novel. Steve actually _growled_ , sinking his teeth into her tongue and drawing another one of those delicious sounds from her chest. 

After a minute or so, he drew away, and smirked at her again. “Well then,” he said, “let’s see if we’ve been lying.”

Natasha ground her teeth together and fought the desire to both struggle for freedom and-slash-or moan in pleasure as two of his thick, calloused fingers slowly plunged themselves between her lips and through her folds, stroking themselves back and forth from her entrance to the hood of her clit several times. She didn’t need to say or do anything though; or own soaking wet cleft was proof enough, and Steve chuckled to himself as he withdrew his fingers and rubbed them together, admiring their dampness.

“Looks like somebody might be harbouring some unresolved sexual tension for their team mate,” he teased, lifting his fingers to her, offering them by dragging them across her lips. 

Natasha smirked. Fine. If he wanted to play with fire… he was going to get burned.

“Looks like I’m not the only one,” she said matter-of-factly, glancing down at the large bulge pressing insistently against the front of his uniform before flicking her eyes back up to his.

Her sharp teeth seizing his damp fingers was enough to get him to flinch back slightly, not expecting such a sudden movement from the vixen, and Natasha used her one chance to slip both hands out of his grip and take his knee out from underneath him. He twisted with the fall, grabbing both of her shoulders and going down in such a way that she was underneath him, cushioning her fall with both of his hands and dropping to his knees on the tile, the kneepads of his combat pants absorbing the impact.

Their lips were clashing again, Natasha’s legs were wrapped around that _uniform_ , and Steve was fighting his way out of it as the naked assassin slithered her hands into it and clawed her way down his back. 

Perhaps she had been lying, but Steve already knew. And he knew that, by the time he had freed himself fully from the uniform in question, and was ready to work his entire solid length into her, she would be _more_ than ready for him.


	11. (Clint/Reader) N is for Naked In Public

**N: Naked In Public _(HawkReader for another Tumblr Annony-mouse!)  
_** _(Yes. I am going to attempt this! *deep breath*)_

The grass is soft and damp with dew beneath you as you land supine on your back, supported for the most part during the fall by Hawkeye’s strong, taut arms curled around your frame. Neither one of you is really thinking about it; and if you are, it’s definitely not _we really shouldn’t be doing this, shit, we should stop_. It’s more… _we really shouldn’t be doing this, but holy hell, this is HOT!_

Dates with Clint aren’t exactly fancy or spendy, but there’s something charming about the way he laughs genuinely when you crack a joke, or how he offers you his hoodie when he sees you’re shivering. Beneath all of that jackassery, you’ve got a feeling his heart might’ve spent years and years being crushed and pummelled and smashed into a very small, but very _precious_ diamond.

And then, of course, there’s the sex. Which with Clint Barton is usually at least an eight or a nine, a ten on a good night when he’s not drunk too much and he’s not exhausted or jet-lagged from Avenging for three days and nights in a row. Tonight, you’re both actually sober, and you’ve both been antsy all night. Which probably means at least a nine-and-a-half, guaranteed.

“Here?” you gasp as he tugs at the zipper on your hoodie, and when you look up and catch the glint of his teeth as he grins mischievously at you in the moonlight, you know he’s for real.

“Yeah, totally, why not?” He looked around, still grinning. The park seems to be deserted, and the nearest foot path is a good fifty yards away and completely hidden by the underbrush the two of you tumbled playfully behind on your way back to his apartment. It’s always been a fantasy of yours, and the idea of getting caught… _does_ add to the excitement of it…

You grin back at him, and your hands reach up to return the favour, pushing his leather jacket off of his shoulders. “Not worried about Captain America finding out you got arrested for doing it in a bush?”

“We’re nowhere near a school and it’s like, two in the morning, no one comes by here.” Clint is already shrugging out of his white tee-shirt, before leaning down to kiss you. As your lips clash again and again, wet and messy and noisy in the silence of the urban night, he’s unbuttoning your shirt and stripping it down your shoulders, reaching behind you, and in what feels like a single brush of his fingers, the sneaky rat-bastard has your bra unclasped. Clint: one, you: zero.

“Asshole,” you mutter, and you unzip his pants and wriggle your hand in beside his package. You discover you’re not the _only_ one who is more than ready for this, and your hand squeezes his urgency with a light chuckle.

“Hey,” he breathes against your lips, kissing your nose one last time before drawing back to look at you, topless and beautiful and curvy in the grass. His thighs straddle your hips, and he reaches down to push up your skirt.

“You want this left on like a whore or taken off like a slut?”

“On like a whore,” you respond without missing a beat. His off-kilter and extremely politically incorrect sense of humour is half the reason you like him. You’re already tugging at his jeans when an evil thought strikes your mind.

“But I want you naked. Like a skeezy ho.”

Clint seems to like the fact that you’ve driven the ante up a notch, and eagerly kicks off his worn-out Chucks, squirming and wriggling out of his jeans. Now in just a pair of purple boxer shorts, he snaps the waistband.

“You first, whore.”

“Why, thank you, skeezeball.” You have to admit, the dirty talk – while you _know_ it would be unacceptably misogynistic in any other scenario – is actually _extremely_ hot right now. But you’ve always had a thing for dirty talk. He spanks the side of your thigh, not hard enough to hurt but not light enough to be ignored, as you reach down and hook your thumbs in the sides of your panties, dragging them slowly, as if to tantalize him, down your bare, smooth thighs. He helps you with the last few inches of the task, grinning at you for a moment before tucking them into the pocket of his discarded jeans.

“Hey!” You punch him in the arm, and he laughs.

“Aww, baby. You never let me have any fun.”

“Um, what the hell are we doing right now, again?”

He looks up for a moment, and around, and then grins. “Oh, yeah! Duh!” He laughs and gets his feet under him, peeling down his boxer shorts. You can see he’s hard and swollen, and a little dark around the head; he needs attention, badly. And you’re happy to give it to him.

“Wait – gloves on?”

“Erm.” He looked blank for a moment, then reaches back for his jeans, rifling through for his wallet – a beat-up old leather thing with a torn dollar bill hanging out of the top of it and a hole in the side. He flipped it open and pulled out a condom which, thankfully, seemed to be more intact than the wallet.

“Here’s –”

Before he could tear the packet open, a single gunshot rang through the night, shattering the comforting silence in an instant. Clint blinked, staring at the small foil packet in his hand, which had a bullet-hole piercing clean through it.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at it, every muscle still, every joint locked, your blood running as cold as ice through your body. That was a _gunshot_. You look up at him for some hint as to what’s happening – he’s the _Avenger_ , after all – but he isn’t looking at you. He’s still staring at the ruined foil packet in his hand.

“Aww, condom…” he mutters sadly, before throwing a glare over his shoulder in the direction the bullet must’ve come from. “Bro, that was my _last_ futzing condom, are you serious!?”

You throw your head to the side, and through the mess of your own bangs you can vaguely make out the silhouette of what appears to be a man with a thick black ‘stache in a horrifying burgundy-and-gold tracksuit. _Oh, and he brought some friends… eight, nine, TEN friends, to be exact. Oh, goodie._

“Bro, you no need comdom, bro!” the man spat back in a heavy Eastern European accent. He motioned with the handgun. “Bro, we take your dick, bro, an’ we _smash_ it, bro!”

“Please don’t.” You can’t help it. Something about Clint’s easy-going, cocky, fuck-it-all attitude riles you up, makes you push your own boundaries… and your own luck. “I need that. We’re kind of in the middle of something really hot.”

The man chuckles. “We take the _laydee_ though, bro. We always got more room for the _laydees_.”

That seems to change Hawkeye’s entire demeanour. The ex-carny gets a bitter, vicious look on his face, and he glances down at you for a moment, before shooting a look back at the armed men. His hand moves just an inch, a clear signal that he taught you on your first date out with him; it means simply, _we’re going to run_.

“Look, as _honoured_ as I would be to actually fight an enemy with a half-decent aim –” the Avenger was saying, and you can see that he’s getting his legs ready to bolt. Judging by the way he’s facing, he’s planning to sprint directly away from the men, in the direction of the low crosswire fence that leads back onto the main road. From there, there’s at least three alleyways the two of you could take, and multiple sewer systems… whoa, are you _seriously_ considering running _through the sewers_!? What the _hell_ has happened to you!?

Your elbows are under you, and you try to ignore the fact that you’re not wearing anything other than the skirt Clint pushed up over your hips to your stomach, and your sneakers. You’re really, _really_ grateful right now that you didn’t choose to wear heels.

“– my girl and I got a date, and she’s _really_ hot, and so am _I_ , and we’re just… not in the mood.”

And with that, Clint yanks something out of his jeans pocket, and smoke billows out into the clearing area just behind the bushes where the two of you are kneeling. You feel his hand seize your arm and he wrenches, _hard_ – hard enough to almost dislocate your shoulder – and throws you up onto your feet, forcing you forward. Gunfire erupts like a dozen helicopters taking off all at once, and you can’t help it – you scream in surprise, and although you’ll likely kick yourself for it later, logically, it’s a pretty sound reaction to hearing multiple men firing rounds at you all at once, no doubt aiming to _kill_. 

“Just run!” you hear him yell over the noise, and you can feel his presence behind you as you pump your muscles in a desperate attempt to make it to the fence. You wonder, as you approach, how you’ll take it, and decide to just hold your breath, cross your fingers, and throw yourself across it. You kick off from the ground, catch one foot, and roll unceremoniously into the grass the other side, somehow managing to scramble immediately to your feet and keep bolting for the first alleyway you can see. Behind you, you hear Clint grunt as he lands just as ungracefully as you, and then he’s at your side again, pushing you forward.

And that’s the story of how you and Clint Barton came to be wandering around Bed-Stuy at two-thirty in the morning, with nothing but a pair of sneakers, a pleated skirt, an old wallet, and a torn condom between the two of you, hoping that no one would see you on the way back to Clint’s apartment.


	12. (Steve/Bucky/Darcy) D is for Double-Penetration; P is for Pornography

I don't want to lose the lovely comments here, but this fic is now available over in its own awesome Work because it was super cute and I thought it deserved to be more than just a chapter here: [READ IT HERE!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6354955)

(Something, something, your princes and princess are in another castle?)


	13. (Loki/Clint) A is for Auction; B is for Blackmail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!: This ficlet contains blackmail, kidnapping, mental torture, and the very beginnings of non-consensual oral sex. Use your trigger sense! :)

**A: Auction / B: Blackmail** __ **(FrostHawk for ~ozhawkauthor on Tumblr)**  
I love it when I can write one of my own OTPs for someone else!!!!! YAY! Enjoy it, love!  <3  


“We’re going to an auction today.”

On the surface, Clint Barton didn’t react. A usually extremely emotive, extroverted man, the former-carny and ~~former~~ -Agent of SHIELD was uncannily and unexpectedly good at keeping a straight face when necessary. A straight face which, as of five days ago, was starting to heal from most of the bloodied, bruised damage done to it during the fight… no, the _struggle_ for New York.

Empires fell fast these days, it seemed… and it was horrifying how a world that had before felt impenetrable, safe, _secure_ , was so easily unhinged and tossed out of orbit. And so _quickly_.

He had seen the damage done during the Battle of New York, seen it with his own eyes as he stood atop a skyscraper, picking them off as quickly as he could until he had nothing else on him to use as a weapon. He had watched it rush past him as the building crumbled away beneath his feet. He had watched the chaos spread across North America – cities crumbling, flora and fauna perishing, entires armies and nations wiped out in flashes of volatile magic he would never have even believed could be real.

America, Europe… the _world_ …

This world would never be the same again. And it was all because they… _they_ couldn’t stop him.

“Did you hear me?”

Loki _detested_ being ignored, especially when he so clearly wanted attention for something he was doing or saying. The Asgardian prince tapped his foot against the carpet impatiently, his arms folded across his chest as he was draped in a throne he had formed for himself out of ice and some more of his own fucked-up magic. The sceptre stood leaning against it; Clint was _always_ aware of its location, mostly because he was fucking terrified of it. While Loki hadn’t used its ability to warp his mind again, the threat was always there… and that was a reality Clint had _zero_ desire to go back to, even if it meant biting his tongue and behaving himself at times. Even if.

“Sorry, sir?” Clint didn’t turn his head, gazing out of the window listlessly at what had once been downtown Manhattan. Now, the entire downtown core looked like ground zero had done on that fateful day over a decade ago – twisted metal beams, smouldering rubble, even piles dead bodies. At a crosswalk in the distance, a traffic light continued its cycle as if it had no idea the world around it was no longer functioning.

“I was _miles_ away.”

Loki pursed his lips, but let it slide. “I said, my little bird, that we are going to an auction today. I decided that you’ve been so well-behaved over the past few days that you deserve a treat, a small token of my… _appreciation_ for all of the hard work you did to make this possible.”

“Did you now?” the archer grumbled under his breath, ignoring the blatant verbal blade thrown into his heart, and when Loki raised one delicate eyebrow in that calm way that he did, he added a sugar-sweet, “ _Sir_.” to the end.

“I did.” Loki effortlessly unfolded his arms and tapped two fingers against the top of his thigh, a clear signal to the Avenger he had hand-picked out of the rubble for himself after the Battle, refusing to leave what was left of New York City until he has retrieved that which was taken ~~back~~ from him by the Avengers. His expression remaining steely and blank, Clint silently rose to his feet and left the tall glass window, crossing the cold condo to the throne and kneeling in front of it.

Loki grinned; the fact that he could make the stubborn, feisty human do whatever he wanted without the need to brainwash him was a far more pleasant way to do this than _actually_ brainwashing him.

“Several freedom fighters were apprehended on the west coast of this country,” said the Prince, and newly-appointed ‘King of Midgard’, as he liked to call himself. His long, thin, white fingers drummed a gentle pattern on the arm of the ice throne, eerily glowing scarlet eyes studying every inch of the man in front of him for a reaction. He knew Hawkeye would make him work for it; the man was like an impenetrable fortress, but he was far from unbreakable… and by now, Loki _knew_ his soft spots. 

Hell… Clint had _told them to him_.

“Eleven Midgardians, and three Asgardians,” he continued, his tone frosty and delicate, like a snowflake. Or crystal. “Most of them, I haven’t a clue who they are, but the description of one caught my attention… I know for a fact I have seen this human before, and do you know, it took me the longest time to remember where?”

Clint lifted his stubbled chin, meeting the alien’s arrogant gaze with a haughty look of his own. “Please, sir. The anticipation. I can’t _stand_ it.”

It always freaked Clint out how fast the bastard could move. Those fingers were around his jaw and he was being yanked up sharply on his knees before he even _saw_ any movement, and as much as his honed reflexes begged to be allowed to retaliate, the archer remained stiff and unyielding, the sore muscles in his arms keeping them tense and rigid at his sides. One of his knuckles cracked loudly in the silence, and Loki’s smirk grew.

“Helen. Cho.” He said the name slowly, leisurely, dragging each syllable of it out and spreading it all the way across his tongue to the backs of his teeth. Hawkeye could do what he wanted to hide it, the good little spy that he was, but there was no denying the way his pupils dilated with fear upon hearing her name.

“You know that name, don’t you, Barton?” Loki’s impossibly strong hand squeezed his jaw tight, icy skin almost sticking to the other man’s warm face as he held him there, in an uncomfortable half-kneeling position. “Helen Cho… I’ve seen her face before, in your memories… I’ve watched her tend to you, I’ve watched her heal you, and I’ve _also_ watched…”

Clint’s eyebrows furrowed and he made a strained grunting noise of protest, immediately regretting it though, as Loki laughed in his face and kissed the bridge of his nose before letting him go with a backward shove. 

“Oh, I know, my little bird. That didn’t exactly end well, now, did it? I won’t force you through the pain and embarrassment of reliving all of that… well, at least not _yet_ , anyway.”

“Haven’t you done enough fucking damage, _sir_?” snapped Clint, feeling genuinely winded at the thought of Helen having been apprehended by the Chitauri forces that had marched west shortly after pouring into New York City. At first, they had steamrolled over anything and anyone who had gotten in their way. Now that the world was quiet, with pockets of survivors gathered in secret all across the US and any other countries who had resisted, they could be a little more… _choosy_ about what they did with any resistance they came across. 

And of course, Helen would be a fighter, Helen had _always_ been a fighter… it was the goddamn quiet ones that you had to watch. She would never have just rolled over and allowed their planet to be taken hostage like this, she would’ve found people who were fighting, and… Despite his horror and fear, he also felt a surge of pride and admiration.

_SHIELD’s gonna live on, you sons of bitches… you’d better believe it._

“At a certain point, it really just turns into schoolyard bullying, and that’s not something that _any_ evil dictator should _ever_ be proud of, in my humble opinion. Sir.”

“Pride has nothing to do with it.” Loki narrowed his eyes dangerously, in a way that actually made Clint wonder if he’d gone too far.

 _Good_ , he thought. _Maybe this’ll be over quicker than I was worryin’ myself about._

“It’s not about _pride_ , Barton, it’s about making sure you know your place.”

At Clint’s six there was movement, and what he recognized immediately (–don’t _fucking_ ask him how, okay, just don’t–) as the stiff leather of Loki’s pants pressing against the back of his skull, one hand threading fingers into the messy spikes of his hair, the other reaching beneath his chin to take very gentle, but very possessive, hold of his throat. 

The Loki that was still sitting on the throne in front of Clint was smirking now, and the Avenger panicked as he realized he actually didn’t know which one of them was real. If _either_ of them was real. _God futzing DAMN it…_

“You still seem to think that you have just cause to be smart with me, and short with me, and annoyingly _sarcastic_ with me,” said the Loki that was sitting on the throne, leaning forward so that he was more at eye-level with the archer. Clint retained his posture, not reacting at all to the hand at his throat, or the one that was lovingly caressing his hair.

“And as much as turning your brain back into my plaything would be the much simpler road to take, I actually prefer you like _this_. It’s more fun.”

“That being said,” purred the Loki at his back, squeezing his throat a little, “I believe it is time that I put the fear of your _God_ back into you.”

Images flashed across Clint’s mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d been threatened like this; five years ago in Buenos Aires, he and Maria Hill had both been apprehended by the terrorist cell they’d been sent there to take out. Their captors had used the two of them as pawns against one another in order to try and get them to talk, and the two of them had simply had to trust that the other could take whatever they wanted to throw at them. 

In this scenario though, Helen Cho _wasn’t_ a hardened government agent, she _hadn’t_ already been to hell and back. She was a strong woman, but… Clint wasn’t entirely sure he would be willing to sit back and resist while Loki tortured her.

“So, you are going to come on a trip with me, my little bird. We are going to visit a place your people once called California.” The Loki behind him continued to pet his head, and as his hips nudged forward rhythmically against his head, he became very aware that his captor was very… _awake_. 

“And we are going to visit the nice slave traders who have your friend, and we are going to pay them a handsome sum to pre-purchase one of their very fine, fine wares. Then, we will sit and watch the auction, and if there is anybody else you know, and you want to ask me very _nicely_  in front of everybody, I may consider making an additional purchase.”

“And after that?” Clint asked, a tone of urgency to his voice that he was hoping wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t trust Loki… he didn’t trust that he would sit in on the auction unless he knew for _sure_ there would be someone there that Clint would recognize. He felt sick, in the pit of his stomach… he didn’t understand how, in one week, he had gone from being a spy and assassin working in the shadows, to somehow bargaining with a psychopath for the lives of his coworkers.

“After that, we’ll come home, and you can keep them as your own little pets. I’ll decide when you’re allowed to play with them, how often you can feed them, where they stay… and your behaviour will directly influence my decision making.” Loki leaned forward further in the throne and his eyes sparkled evilly as he smirked at the archer. “Do you understand me, _former_ -Agent Barton?”

Clint’s teeth were clenched so tightly in his jaw that he was shaking, and there was a huge lump in his throat that was threatening to melt into tears that would betray just _how_ frightened he was at that moment. Not for himself, but for Helen… and whoever the hell _else_ might’ve been apprehended along with her. 

“… Perfectly, sir,” he responded, and while his tone was absolutely swathed in hatred and revulsion, there was a definite lack of sarcasm. Self-satisfied, Loki smirked, and sat back.

“Good boy.” He pet his knee again, and the Loki behind him released his throat and nudged his erection against the back of his head again. 

“Now,” he said, his hand sliding between them, knuckles grinding a little against the back of Clint’s head as he loosened his pants, “why don’t you take fifteen of your Earth minutes to show me how much you appreciate the _trouble_ I have gone to on behalf of your friends… hmm?”

His eyes fluttering closed in defeat, Clint took a single breath to steel himself before rolling a one-eighty on his knees, turning to face the Loki that was stood behind him. The God smiled down at him with a sickening amount of passion and affection in his eyes, stroking his fingers down Clint’s face.

“Open wide, Hawkeye,” he chuckled in a cruel undertone, before thrusting himself so hard and deep down Clint’s throat that the man simultaneously choked and screamed, his entire body going stiff as he was forced to take everything Loki had to offer in one fell swoop.


	14. (Clint/Kate) F is for Fuck Or Die

**F: Fuck Or Die _(Hawkeye² for a nonny~)_**   
_(I took some INSANE liberties with this, because ‘Hello’ by Adele came on while I was smoking pot on my porch as the sun was going down? So… yeah. Sorry about that. I hope you like it, but I gotta warn ya, there’s some mad angst in this… *ahem*)_

The joint smouldered between calloused, trembling fingers, thin wisps of smoke dancing and twirling around the tip with far more energy than he was able to muster at that moment in time. It was his sixth today, segmented between beer after beer, the bottles that weren’t littering the coffee table now crammed into the overstuffed recycling bin, dripping slowly onto the floor, much to Lucky’s delight. The apartment felt _weird_ right now, and he couldn’t sit in it any longer. He’d even left his pager.

He didn’t want to be disturbed. For anything.

Not because he was doing any heavy thinking, or because his time was precious. He had all the time in the world right now, while Kate was training with the New Avengers – quite rightfully, actually, where _he_ should be too, but he just… he couldn’t stand seeing the two of them together anymore.

Whenever he touched her arm to adjust her pose, Clint wanted to break each and every bone in every one of his fingers with the pair of pliers Kate kept under the kitchen sink. When she flirted with him, because she flirted with _everyone_ and expected it not to mean _anything_ , he wanted to rip his hearing aids out to avoid having to ever run the risk of retaining whatever she was going to say to him. When they laughed together, he wanted to punch him in his _perfect teeth_ , which was so vicious and spiteful it sounded like something _Tony_ would say, not Clint Barton.

Not Captain America’s staunchest _supporter_.

Eyes red and raw from crying, which only made him feel like _less_ of a fucking man, Clint tucked his left knee under his chin and adjusted his position, sitting on top of the topmost level of his building’s roof. Bed-Stuy lay in its own filth and stench far beneath him, the wind rustling a torn garbage bag that was dragging itself down the street over the asphalt. He could smell urine, and gasoline, and _pot_ – which likely wasn’t just on his account, in this area. Hell, in this _building_.

He took a swig from the beer bottle in his hand, then a drag from the joint, slow and deliberate. His fingers would stink of ash later and Kate would be mad, but really, what did it matter anymore? What did _any_ of it matter anymore? What did _anything_ matter, when life shit-kicked you around for the first thirty-four years, and you _finally_ learned the lessons the bastard had been trying you to teach, and it was _too late_?

Blue eyes burning with a fresh well of tears, Clint stubbornly lifted his hand to grind his knuckle miserably into the left one. He was an _idiot_ … an idiot to think that, after the hell he had lived through, there would ever be a light at the end of his tunnel.

It wasn’t a light, it had _never_ been a light… It was a goddamn fucking _train_.

Clint Barton had never felt so trapped, so helpless, in his entire life. Everything he said, everything he thought, everything he _felt_ – it was so trivial. It was trivial, because there was no proof. It was trivial, because no matter how he tried to word it, he sounded like a paranoid fuckboy with the world’s angriest inch getting possessive over his woman. And the worst part? There was no one he could talk to, because hardly anybody knew that he and Kate were involved, and quite frankly, he had too much pride to go whining back to Natasha again and again. At some point, you just become a scratched record, repeating the same thing over and over again, and –

“Smoking on the roof? You really _do_ like your cliches, don’t you?”

Snorting to himself, Clint closed his eyes and shook his head. Goddamn it, he was getting careless. Or Natasha was getting better at sneaking up on people.

“Hey, I thought girls _liked_ cliches these days?” he shot back, perhaps a little too bitterly, and he immediately regretted it but simultaneously decided to do nothing to improve his attitude. “Isn’t that what gets you all wet? Cliches and romanticisms and tropes and all that old-fashioned bullshit?”

“Someone’s got his claws out today.” Natasha nudged him over a little, vaulting up onto the vent with him and draping her legs over the side of the building. 

“The whole ‘stay high and try to ignore it’ approach is working just about as well as it normally does, I see,” she said, and although her words were sarcastic, her tone was soft and sympathetic. “Not coping so well, huh?”

“Did I get paged?”

“No, but you weren’t at work. And good to know your pager isn’t on you. The world’s lucky it doesn’t need its best archer right now.”

Clint snorted again, his eyes and nose even redder than they had been five minutes ago. “Someone need me? _Me_? Never. I’m pretty sure you’re thinkin’ of another interchangeable blond.”

“Clint…”

“Well, c’mon.” He snapped his head away angrily, mostly so that his partner wouldn’t see how much he was struggling to swallow back the tears. His stomach ached with the same pain it had done for weeks now… like a knife in his gut. He couldn’t breathe.

“What was I thinkin’? Girl like that, half my age, gorgeous, smart… no way was… no _way_ was I right for her.” He turned his head into his shoulder, drying his soggy nose on his tee-shirt sleeve so that he wouldn’t have to move in any way that would reveal he was crying. “She wants… she wants… _Mr. Perfect_.”

“She doesn’t want Mr. Perfect, Clint. She loves _you_.”

“We’re not meant for each other, Nat. We all know that, _everyone_ fuckin’ does now. I was just stupid and didn’t… didn’t see it ‘til it was… _confirmed_.”

Natasha looked broken. She had no words for her best friend. Her leather jacket creaked a little as she lifted her arm and draped it across his broad shoulders, cuddling closer to him on the rooftop and placing her head against his. When she next spoke, it was in one of the smallest voices he had ever heard her use.

“Clint, I’m so sorry.”

“How can we not be right for each other!?” He didn’t care anymore; the physical contact had shattered both his resolve and his pride, and he hung his head low as his body shook between verbal explosions with silent sobs. “Look at us, Nat, _look_ at us! Look at _her_! She’s _everything_ I need in a woman, everything I’ve ever wanted since I fucked shit up with Bobbi, maybe even more than that! She’s perfect for me in every goddamn way and still… I’m not…”

His entire face contorted with pain, and his teeth clenched until his jaw trembled. 

“ _I’m not perfect for her_.”

The joint in Clint’s hand needed to be ashed, badly, though at least the tiny little holes all over the thighs of his jeans were suddenly explained. Natasha’s hand reached out to remove it smoothly, flicking it over the edge of the building before taking a drag herself.

“You know, a lot of people don’t actually marry their soulmates, Clint.” She put the joint to his lips, letting him take a puff, and then pulled it away again so that he could speak.

“I know that, Nat, but Kate is… she’s all… _romantic_. She was buzzin’ when her mark showed up, I haven’t seen her that happy in weeks. I can’t _make_ her that happy anymore, Nat. I never could.”

“But she’s told you she doesn’t want to pursue it.”

“Yeah, she tells me a lotta things,” he muttered bitterly, sniffing again and wiping his eyes and his nose on the back of his hand. The weed was keeping him in an eternally high state, completely permafried, and while he was grateful for it, it just wasn’t enough right now. He wanted to be _catatonic_. 

“We haven’t had sex in a week. She’s always on her phone, gigglin’ with her friends about him. ‘Cuz she’s _super_ Miss Popular right now, man… imagine, being the pretty dame who’s _soulmates_ with _Captain America_!” Clint grunted in anger and launched his bottle across the rooftop, where it hit the lip before it could sail over the edge and shattered all over the cracked, mossy patio tile. He felt better… for about a second and a half.

_Maybe I should just break everythin’…_

“Productive,” said Natasha, raising an eyebrow. “So… are you going to run away like you did with Bobbi? Or are you going to fight for her?”

Clint shook his head, his shoulders still shaking a little. “I dunno… fight, I guess? I mean, I… don’t… don’t take this as an overdramatic cliche, or nothin’, but… I don’t think… I can go on without her, y’know?” He glanced up at his friend, and in his eyes was so much fear and pain and sadness, Natasha was taken aback for a good moment or two. 

“I think if she leaves me, I… I think I’m done, Nat.”

“Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean it.” Clint’s voice was a quiet, steady monotone, weak and weary with nothing left to give. “I fuck everything up that I touch. I’ve spent the last… the last thirty-four years of my life trying to find _one thing_ that makes me happy, _one person_ I can change for, who can change me… and now I’ve found her, and… and…” 

“Ssh.” Natasha squeezed him in her arms, placing her head against his. “It’s okay… Clint, whatever happens, we’re going to work through this. Okay?”

_Whatever happens…_

“I promise.”


	15. (Clint/Bruce) W is for Wet & Messy

**W: Wet & Messy _(HulkEye for ~dresupi on Tumblr)_**

Sex had _always_ been a topic that had made Bruce _incredibly_ nervous.

For a man who had spent almost his entire adult life looking for ways to calm himself, to keep his rage from bubbling over or even beginning to boil in the first place, the concept of allowing oneself to lose control entirely was just… terrifying.

Unfortunately, sex had _also_ always been a topic that Hawkeye liked to bring up. A _lot_.

Bruce had never dated anyone with such a healthy, if you could call it that, sexual appetite before. Though to be honest, his dating record was a little… sparse. Lacking. Either way, it baffled him how Clint could walk into the lab without any shoes or socks on, strip off his shirt, hike himself up to sit on the desk, and make eyes at him, all whilst smelling slightly of light beer at two o’clock in the afternoon on his days off. 

“I’m not going to… to be the one _inside_ ,” the biological engineer had stammered in that adorably nervous way that he did when Clint had first managed to corner him about the subject of when they could perhaps start to connect on a more _intimate_ level. “I can’t… if something went wrong…”

“You would split me like pea soup?” Clint had joked, which had only caused Bruce’s worry to deepen further. He had no idea how some people – Tony, Clint, Thor, for example – were not absolutely petrified of being in his company for so many hours of the day. 

Regardless, though, of his fellow Avenger’s apparently suicidal tendencies, sex wasn’t something Bruce was willing to try for a long, long while. It wasn’t until Hawkeye went to more extreme measures to ensure Bruce was comfortable, calm, and serene that he began to fully trust the archer with his temperament. 

“This stuff,” Clint had said, flicking the top of the bottle open with a pop to the scent of sandalwood and lime, “is seriously the shit.”

Bruce had experienced many a massage before, and Clint Barton didn’t seem the type of man who would be all that good with beauty therapy. But this was before Bruce had seen him do Natasha’s runway-style make-up flawlessly from foundation to lips in less than fifteen minutes. The more he thought about it, though, the more it made sense that the world’s greatest archer would know _e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g_ about the physique of the male upper torso. 

“How’s that?” he would ask, his thighs straddling Bruce’s round ass (his ‘bubble butt’, as Clint liked to call it) so that he could get the proper leverage to knead and work his boyfriend’s shoulders with his knuckles and thumbs. Beneath him, a low throaty groan arose from the limp yet stiff scientist, whose shoulders carried more tension than the ex-carny had ever had to loosen up. Seriously. It was _insane_ just how much stress Bruce carried around with him on a daily basis.

As time went by, he added other things to create a more relaxed atmosphere. Candles, and dimmed overhead lights. Soft gentle background music, selected from the classical scores in Bruce’s own library. He even washed the bedsheets a couple of times. He was venturing into foreign territory, intimacy and comfort that wasn’t driven by passion or lust or reckless abandon, and for the first time in a long time, sex didn’t feel _dirty._

“Right in here, huh…?”

The massage oil was slick and wet across Bruce’s skin, which was smooth in places and scarred in others, and Clint had to wonder what physical stress this man’s body had been through in the past with everything that had happened to him. The mental stress of what he must go through in order to make sure everybody around him was safe from… _him_. A few times, during their sessions, Bruce had sobbed and sobbed from the emotional release, apologizing over and over despite how Clint would hold him and tell him not to be futzing ridiculous, everyone’s allowed to cry. Because Clint was a perfect hypocrite in that way, and although Bruce knew it, it was comforting nonetheless, and he was able to release the pent up tension and rage until he was as mellow and tranquil as he had ever been in his life, laying there crushed between Clint’s comfortable, stable, secure weight and the memory foam mattress in his boyfriend’s apartment.

It was one of those times, when Bruce was slippery and relaxed and laying wrapped up in all of Clint’s tangled, spidery limbs, that he craned his neck up awkwardly and initiated for the first time with a single kiss to the archer’s dry lips.

That was the first night they had sex.

It was wet, and slippery, and slick. The two men’s frames moved over one another, the sensation and texture the massage oil created between the skin of their limbs and chests coupled with the soft piano ballad and flickering candlelight kept Bruce in a state of magnetized bliss, a trance of relaxation and calm, as Clint’s more experienced body took control of his own and guided him through each and every step in a lovemaking so slow and sensual Bruce honestly wasn’t even sure he remembered it properly. 

Several hours later, Clint was gently snoring, curled protectively against his smaller body from behind with both arms locked around him, holding him under his jaw. His heavy breaths rustled Bruce’s salt-n-pepper curls as the smaller man cried silently in unspoken and unfamiliar happiness, his lover’s heartbeat against his back lulling him further into a land where time stood still and his body could just be _free_.


	16. (Clint/Pietro) E is for Erotic Sexual Denial

**E: Erotic Sexual Denial _(HawkSilver for ~concavepatterns on Tumblr)_**

Having a boyfriend who could spank your ass one nanosecond and be literally in another room the next wasn’t exactly something most people had to deal with. And to make matters worse, Pietro Maximoff was quite probably and very literally the only person Clint had ever met who was even cockier than he was.

The little shitnozzle probably enjoyed the punishment. It was the only reason he would constantly continue to poke and peck at the other Avenger, whether it was pranking him at the Tower in front of everyone else, or just for fun when the two of them were alone at his apartment with Lucky snoozing on the couch.

But the thing about being quite possibly the fastest guy in the world? As soon as you’re caught, you’re just the same as everybody else…

“Had enough yet, Eurotrash?”

Clint couldn’t see Pietro from where he was leaning against the windowsill gazing out, totally nude with his back to the younger man.

“I was thinkin’, you know that old lot across the street? It’s been empty for ages, and I was chattin’ to Katey-Kate. We might look into buyin’ it, turnin’ it into a community vegetable plot, or somethin’.”

Pietro didn’t respond, probably because he was too busy gasping for air. Clint grinned to himself cruelly. Fastest man alive wasn’t so fast when he was strapped spread-eagled to the archer’s sturdy iron bed frame with industrial-strength leather cuffs. Ahh, revenge was such a beautifully addictive drug. Worse than cocaine. He would know.

He rolled the Hitachi Magic Wand over and over in his hands. No wonder Katey-Kate liked this thing so damn much. And the flutter attachment was just… well, he was looking at the product of it, writhing and squirming helplessly all over his mattress. He would have to get her like, a box of that cheap wine she liked or something, as a thanks for the loan.

She knew it was for a good cause.

Clint glanced at the LED alarm clock on the pressboard side table, which didn’t match the bed _or_ the dresser. The poor little bastard had been bound there, his wrists and ankles stretched tight enough that he could literally barely wiggle his hips an inch left or right, for two and a half hours now, and his proud erection was so swollen and hard within the cruel confines of the rubber cock ring that Clint almost felt bad for him. _Almost_.

“You’re gonna have to say something sooner or later, man,” chuckled Clint, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His weight caused the mattress to dip a little at the end, and Pietro grunted, turning his head away from the older Avenger.

“Or I’m just not gonna let you come. You ain’t got nowhere to be, I checked your schedule at work.”

“Piece of shit,” the Sokovian spat over his shoulder, his voice still trembling just as hard as his biceps and quads. Clint smirked in appreciation – he really _was_ beautiful when he was fucked. 

“Hey, c’mon, I ain’t gonna give you what you need if you’re just gonna be an asshole.” Clint shifted back on the bed to sit more comfortably between his boyfriend’s thighs, running one calloused, rough fingertip all the way up the length of his cock from the silicon ring at the base to the darkened, weeping head. He swiped his thumb across it, revelling in the way the Mutant’s sharp, bony hips snapped up violently in response. Up on the pillows, Pietro grunted, his teeth clenching tightly to avoid any further vocal reaction. _Goddamn, he’s so fucking beautiful._

“You gotta ask nicely. Or you don’t get what you want.”

“And I s’pose you know what it is I want!?” snapped Pietro, his head whipping back over to glare down at the man between his defencelessly-spread thighs. The muscles, built from billions of miles of running, were tense and taut, protruding from the skin in smooth valleys and ridges that Clint seemed to be enjoying exploring with his fingers as he grinned evilly back at him.

“’Course I do, you’re easy. You want my mouth.”

“Do I!?”

“Yeah.” Hawkeye smirked up at him and closed one eye in a cheeky wink, leaning down ever so slightly so that Pietro would feel his breath over the sensitive head of his cock as he spoke each word. “You want my mouth all around your cock, sucking it to the back of my throat, my tongue all over you…” He paused to follow the path his finger had previously taken with the firm width of his tongue, which Pietro was already incredibly well-versed in just how skilled it was.

He shuddered again and his hips pumped up, trying to gain more friction. He had been more stubborn to begin with, but well… trying to outlast a man who knew the ins and outs of sexual torture like the back of his draw hand wasn’t a game he could ever possibly have even a _hope_ of winning.

“C’mon, kiddo. Just tell me you want it, an’ I’ll give it to you.” He grinned up at him again, a grin that Pietro probably wasn’t sure whether or not he can trust. “Avengers’ Honour.”

“Really?” gasped Pietro, still defiantly cocky between pants for air, as he slowly began to come down from how close Clint had allowed him to get about six minutes ago before standing up and walking away from the bed entirely, abandoning him to his own erotic misery. “You have honour? Really now? That… that is a surprise to me…”

Clint sighed and his face creased into The Look, the one he got when he was just done with being played, or annoyed, or fucked about. He readjusted his position, opening his mouth wide so that barely anything but wet heat would actually _touch_  his boyfriend’s shaft as he slowly engulfed him without actually offering any friction. Pietro almost _screamed_ , the heat and damp and the sensation of his breath and the way he pulled back when the tender head of his cock _finally_ touched the back of Clint’s throat and was offered _some_ form of blessed release…

“ _Fuck!_ ” he screamed at the top of his lungs when it was gone again, and Clint laughed, teasing the base of the shaft with the tip of his tongue in slow patterns, writing the man’s name out over and over again and listening to him cry out, whine, moan, and do _everything_ but beg.

And until he begged… until he apologized… he wouldn’t be getting what he wanted. What he _needed_.

It was Clint’s _favourite_ form of punishment… and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was Pietro’s, too.


End file.
